On the red staircase

At the first moment she did not know me, but shrank away from a supposed rioter, her white face sharply outlined against the dark background.

“At last I have found you,” I exclaimed, almost with joy, in spite of our peril.

She recognized my voice, and clung to my hand like a child.

“Save me!” she cried faintly; “they will tear me to pieces, as they are tearing him.”

“I will save you,” I murmured in a low tone; “only trust me and be brave.”

I flung her mantle over her head, veiling her face, and opening the other door of the carriage, sprang boldly out, lifting her to the ground. The rioters were still busy dispatching Viatscheslav, who was not quite dead, and they let us take two or three steps unmolested, then, with a howl, surrounded us. Zénaïde shrank towards me, quivering in every limb; I threw my left arm around her, and in the other hand I held my naked sword.

“Here is some of the Naryshkin brood!” was the cry. “Cut them down, there is no room here for traitors!”

“Stand back!” I exclaimed in a loud tone, and the habit of command served me well, for there was a pause. “Give place here for the lady; she is a ward of the Czarevna Sophia. Woe unto you if you harm a Miloslavsky!”

“He lies!” exclaimed one of them, mockingly; “this woman was with Naryshkin. Who is this traitor? One of their minions?”

There was a howl of fury from the outer edge of the crowd, but I kept the foremost back by my undaunted front.

“I am the envoy of the King of France,” I said calmly, “and if a hair of my head is injured, Russia will have to answer for it. Stand aside! I must take this lady to the czarevna.”

A mob is like a wild beast, curbed by the steadiest nerve, and I saw that I might hold these furies at bay just as long as I kept my head. Zénaïde was bravely silent, but I felt her shiver as she leaned against me. The worst aspect of it was that the throng was becoming larger, and at any moment might be beyond my control; one of the ringleaders too was disposed to have my blood.

“How do we know that the fellow is speaking the truth?” he exclaimed. “Who knows that he is the envoy of the King of France?”

“He looks a squire of dames,” a voice cried in the crowd, and there was a shout of derision.

Another second, and I could not control them. I ran my eye despairingly along the ring of ferocious faces. Suddenly I saw the head of Michael, Ramodanofsky’s man, craned over the others. I hailed the sight with joy.

“There is one of your own men who knows me,” I exclaimed, pointing at him.

He evidently divined the situation, if he did not recognize Zénaïde, and pushed forward, whispering something to the ringleaders that damped their impetuosity. But, even then, we were in great peril, until a sudden diversion released us.

“There goes Peter Naryshkin!” rose a shriek to the left, and the ring around us dissolved, and they were off, full cry, after the unfortunate, whom they brutally murdered, although he proved to be not a Naryshkin, but the son of a boyar, Feodor Soltykof.

At the moment of the break, I hurried Zénaïde away. The rioters had occupied the Red Staircase and were swarming into the palace, so that it was impossible to gain access there, and it was necessary to hide her at once from the sight of the mob. The only refuge that occurred to me was one of the cathedrals, and with a common impulse, we hastened in the direction of the Church of the Resurrection. On every side the work of death was going on, and the ground was slippery with blood. I turned out of my path that Zénaïde might not see a hideous corpse which I recognized, by the dress alone, as that of the Chancellor Matveief. She displayed unusual courage, walking with a firm step amid scenes of such horror that they sickened me—a man and a soldier. I had hoped that Michael might join us, but he had been pushed away by the furious pursuit of Peter Naryshkin, and I had to depend on my own sword and my own wits to bring her safe through. Pushed hither and thither by the surging crowd, we finally reached the rear of the cathedral. Here it was comparatively quiet, and I paused to look about for a way to enter without going to the front, that we might escape the rioters.

“There is a postern to the left,” Zénaïde said, rousing herself, and speaking in a quiet voice.

She guided me along the wall until we came to a low door, and here she knocked gently. They were probably watching for fugitives, for it was opened almost at once by a white-haired priest, who let us in silently and barred the door behind us. But even as we entered, there was a sound of a fierce tumult from the front of the building which arrested our movements.

“What is it?” cried Zénaïde, her voice breaking a little with terror, for it was like the roar of wild beasts. The priest stood listening, his face pale.

“Alas!” he exclaimed, as we heard the outer doors crash in, “some one must have betrayed him. Athanasius Naryshkin is hidden under the altar. If they find him, nothing can save him.”

He rushed towards the curtained alcove behind the altar, through which he could enter the chancel, and leaving Zénaïde for a moment, I followed him. It was too late to do anything to rescue Naryshkin; not even the priests could save him by appealing to the sanctity of the house of God. It was a horrid scene; the outer doors had been forced, and the church was crowded with a frantic mob. The light in the cathedral was dim, but those terrible blood-stained faces stood out against the gloomy background with awful distinctness, and the blood dripped from their spears upon the floor. On the altar steps stood a figure which I recognized with righteous indignation, and regret that I had not slain him. It was the diminutive apelike form of Homyak, and it was he who had directed the movements of the searching party, his the first yell of triumph as they dragged the czarina’s unfortunate brother from under the altar. The sight of the defenseless man in the hands of these wretches fired my blood, and I sprang forward; but a young priest caught me in his arms and pressed me back towards the alcove.

“Fool!” he whispered in my ear; “there are eight hundred men in the nave, you cannot save him. It is death to go down the steps.”

I realized that he had rescued me, but it frenzied me to hear Naryshkin’s death-cry. Already a dozen spears had been struck into his quivering flesh, and he writhed, dying, on the floor of the cathedral. The thought of Zénaïde recalled me to my senses, and I hurried back to her.

“Come,” I said, “the church is in the hands of the mob, and we cannot hide here.”

I unfastened the door, and we emerged upon a quiet scene, for the rioters were all at the front of the building or within it. While I hesitated upon my next step, Zénaïde came nearer to me and grasped my sleeve.

“M. le Vicomte,” she said, “have you seen Mademoiselle Eudoxie? Do you know where she is?”

I started; I had entirely forgotten the good woman.

“She is in the Ramodanofsky house,” I replied; I had been on the point of saying “your father’s house,” but recollected in time not to shock her with the sudden revelation.

“Holy Virgin!” she cried, “they are murdering the boyars; they will go there and kill her. We must save her.”

The truth of what she said had already dawned upon me, but I could not help mademoiselle while Zénaïde was in such peril.

“As soon as you are safe,” I said, “I will go and protect Mademoiselle Eudoxie.”

But she was animated by the spirit of her race, and her womanly fears had subsided at the thought of another’s danger.

“I will go now, M. de Brousson,” she exclaimed, her eyes shining with a determined fire. “We can get out; the crowd has been drawn away from yonder gate. We cannot go back. Hear them howl about the palace! What is it that they are shouting now?”

I bent my head and listened. Distinctly I heard Von Gaden’s name coupled with cries of “traitor” and “poison.”

“They want the physician’s life,” Zénaïde said; “I heard them, before you came, crying for him, saying that he had murdered the Czar Feodor. But come, M. le Vicomte, we have not a moment to lose.”

“Mademoiselle,” I cried in a fever of anxiety, “you cannot go, you must not go! It is dangerous—perhaps certain death—”

She stopped, and turned to look at me; her mantle had fallen back so that I could see plainly the pale, beautiful face, the brilliant light in the blue eyes.

“M. de Brousson,” she said, in a low tone, “I am wrong to imperil your life. Leave me; I must go and save her, but it is too much to ask of you.”

“Mademoiselle,” I remonstrated, “do not imagine that I would fail to do my duty because of any personal risk. If I have ever served you, forbear such a taunt as that.”

“Pardon me,” she murmured faintly; “I spoke in haste, but—”

I had drawn her arm through mine.

“Come, mademoiselle,” I said, and hurried her on, without another word, towards the gate nearest us, all the while listening to the yells of rage and triumph behind. They were dragging the hideously mutilated bodies of their victims, Matveief, the Naryshkins, and many more, across the square with the spears still sticking in them, and I could hear the cries: “Here goes the Boyar Artemon Sergheievitch Matveief!” “Here goes a privy-councillor!” Zénaïde heard and understood, for she shuddered; but nothing stayed our course. Every moment was precious, and we moved along as rapidly as we dared. To run would have been a fatal way of attracting attention, for even here there were groups of rioters apparently searching for victims; and as we neared the gate, a howl to the left made us both turn, only to see them strike down a white-haired councillor. If I had been without Zénaïde, the old man would not have fallen without a blow in his defense; but her helplessness tied my hands, although my blood boiled at the sight. The rabble was frenzied with the taste of slaughter, and burning with the thirst for vengeance for many bitter wrongs. Never, for a moment, did I doubt the justice of most of the complaints of the Streltsi. They had suffered, in common with all of the lower classes of Russia, and now that they could strike a blow in revenge, it was very sweet to them. The murder of the aged official was fortunate for us, drawing all attention to that spot, and so permitting us to escape. Once out of the Kremlin, we breathed more freely. At that time the riot was confined within the walls of the fortress, and the streets were comparatively quiet; it was not for some hours that they broke loose, pursuing their enemies into the city, and even searching the houses of the foreigners. The quiet which seemed to prevail without encouraged the hope that we might reach Ramodanofsky’s house and get Mademoiselle Eudoxie away unmolested. We had been walking very fast, and I noticed that Zénaïde looked exhausted, and slackened my pace.

“Not so fast, mademoiselle,” I said; “it is not now so imperative, and I do not believe that Mademoiselle Eudoxie is in peril as yet. We shall be there in good time.”

“I cannot bear to linger a moment, M. le Vicomte,” she replied, in a tone of anxiety; “I have seen too much of horror to risk poor mademoiselle; and besides my uncle—”

She paused, as if unwilling to finish the sentence, and I was almost startled; I had forgotten that she did not know of Vladimir’s death, and I saw that I must prepare her for the coming revelation, for the Boyar Feodor might be in his own house, although I doubted it.

“Your uncle will never trouble you again, mademoiselle,” I remarked quietly.

She started and stared at me with a sudden revulsion of feeling; I knew that she fancied him among the mutilated bodies in the Kremlin.

“Did you see it?” she exclaimed faintly.

“You misunderstand, mademoiselle,” I replied; “he was not murdered yonder. He died—by—by accident in his own house yesterday. I witnessed the end. There was none of the violence you feared.”

She looked at me wonderingly, evidently unable to grasp the change that had taken place so suddenly: her uncle and her detested betrothed both removed so swiftly from her path.

“You witnessed his death, M. de Brousson?” she said slowly; “I do not understand.”

Then I told her, as gently as I could, of my search for her, and the visit to Ramodanofsky, and of the fatal cup of vodka.

“Yes,” she said quietly, “I knew that he kept deadly poisons—eastern poisons—in that cabinet. It is strange how swiftly come the retributions. And the mirror which saved you, I love it so well. It was my mother’s; she brought it with her from France. How little she dreamed that it would save a Frenchman’s life!”

And avenge her, I thought, wondering not a little how much Zénaïde recollected of the tragedy of the past.

“Mademoiselle,” I said gently, “can you recall your childhood? Do you remember your mother—or your father?”

“I cannot tell,” she replied thoughtfully; “my mind is confused about it. I cannot separate what I may remember from what the old servants may have told me. I was so young when my mother died, I could not remember, of course, and I was not so much older at my father’s death.”

“At your father’s death,” I repeated slowly; “is your father really dead, then?”

She glanced at me in wide-eyed amazement. “Did you not know it, monsieur?”

“I knew that your uncle said that he was dead,” I replied quietly, watching her agitated face.

She stood still, gazing at me strangely.

“Tell me all, M. le Vicomte!” she exclaimed, her breath coming quickly; “you know something—what is it?”

“Mademoiselle,” I replied gently, “you know what the Boyar Vladimir was; can you not imagine that he would easily wrong even his own brother?”

Her face was very pale. “Yes,” she returned slowly; “but I never dreamed that he had wronged my father. Did—did he have anything to do with his death?”

I took both her hands in mine.

“Zénaïde Feodorovna,” I said tenderly, “your father is not dead; he lives, and is in Moscow.”

I had feared that she might faint, but I had forgotten that to her “father” was but a name. She was deeply moved, but she commanded herself, and in a few moments was walking on beside me.

“Where is he now?” she asked after a while, her voice shaken with a new and deep emotion.

“He was at his own home, mademoiselle,” I replied; “but now I cannot tell, except that he must be safe, for he is of the Miloslavsky party, and has great influence, I believe, with the Streltsi.”

Zénaïde did not reply; I think that it flashed upon her that if the brothers were cast in similar mold, her father might be engaged in the bloody work at the Kremlin,—a thought that had occurred to me since I had seen Michael in the mob. We walked on in silence, approaching the house at last without having met one of the rioters. To my surprise, the gates were open, and we entered the empty court. It occurred to us both that this silence and desertion was strange; and Zénaïde, running on ahead of me, tried the great doors, and finding them fastened, we passed around to the postern in the wing.